The Alien Trace [Cord 01]

    

    

    Cord, the Mehiran empath, had left his native planet on a mission of vengeance-to catch the unknown being who had destroyed his family and threatened his whole world. But the universe is a big place, and a Mehiran's got to live, so Cord found it necessary to take on assignments and use his special talents for pay…

    

    

    Scanning by unknown hero.

    OCR, formatting & proofing by
P.

    

    

    

    
For H. B. Buckley

    
They also serve who sit and type

    

    

    

    The city was alien, as all cities were to him in his exile. This one, on the planet Brunan, was mostly human-populated, but there were a sufficient sprinkling of other races so that Cord attracted no notice. His erect, pointed ears twitched occasionally as he caught a few words of importance. Under the tunic and robe he wore, his tail twitched too.

    He strode under the pink arches of a luxury hostel and found himself amid a group of trisexuals from one of the lesser-known worlds. As they pored over a compumap, their feelings were a jumble in Cord's mind: irritation from the male, anxiety from the female, a wish to mediate from the neuter being.

    A human would not have paused or even realized that they needed help. He need not stop-no one would think it strange if he passed them by, and he had his own affairs to tend. Yet it would not take long, and there was no need to hurry now, not until he located his quarry.

    In Multi-Lang, polished by long lonely days among aliens, Cord said, "Gentles, may I aid?"

    "No, we thank you," the male replied, as the female said.

    "Yes, gracious one, please," and the neuter finished.

    "If you could direct us to the Jewelers' Section? It is famous but I do not perceive it on this otherwise excellent map."

    "That is because it is not really within the city at all, but in a suburb not shown. Dial for the northern suburbs and you will find it."

    They thanked him, more or less in unison, in their various ways. He took in their psychic reactions as well. The male was sullen with embarrassment that it had been necessary to accept another's assistance. The female was grateful, happy to be extricated from an uncomfortable situation, and full of pleasant anticipation. The emotion was so clear that Cord felt sure she was thinking of the dragon stones and flame beryls to be bought. Any visitor to this world would think of those gems. The neuter was glad to be removed from difficulty. Its thoughts settled into contentment.

    Cord dismissed the trio from his mind even as he turned to leave, but in its way the encounter was satisfying; for once he had not been seeking information or been wary of a trap. For a moment he felt an overwhelming homesickness for the innocence and peace of his home planet, Mehira. His guard was down-if there had been another Mehiran in the city, that outburst would have brought a response, but there was nothing.

    Not surprising, Cord thought. His race stayed planetbound, not courting friendship with aliens. Since they had never developed spaceflight, they were dependent upon space-faring breeds, but they fiercely limited that contact, managing to keep all aliens ignorant of Mehiran secret abilities. So far as Cord knew, he was the first-perhaps the only-Mehiran to travel offworld. No one on this planet would know it, of course. Who could remember all the races that fared up and down the galaxies? He was humanoid, like fifty other species. He could speak Multi-Lang. And he was very good at avoiding detection.

    He passed another neon-colored building crowded with tourists and scanned them quickly. No trace of his quarry there. The tourists' thoughts were of red-gold and glowing green jewels, the kind sold by master craftsmen in the teeming markets. A few years ago, Cord reflected, he would have bought a pair of rings to take home to his parents or to his love-partner. His parents had loved beauty for its own sake as the natives of this world did. He himself had once felt the same; most Mehirans enjoyed loveliness. Now it was only a distraction-as well as dangerous.

    Other tourists thought of sampling the unusual delicacies sold from small pushcarts. Still others dreamed about buying new faces and bodies, having themselves sculpted like clay and molded into handsome, muscular men or lusciously curved women. Each one had an important thought uppermost in his or her or its mind-but there was only one thing of importance to Cord, and he was near it. So near. It meant more to him than flame gems or the medical marvel of body-sculpting.

    Yet these were the planet's ultimate artistic achievements. The latter was Brunan's most famous art form, and its most expensive: molding flesh, not metal, cutting tissues rather than stones.

    The Brunani were the most skilled plastic surgeons and biochemists in this galaxy. Hundreds of thousands of the wealthy came each year to buy new faces, new figures, new metabolisms. The concubine of the Space Guild's Grand Master has a tendency to gain weight? Two days' treatment and she could be slim forever-or until she was tired of her new body and could afford another one. If the heir to a solar system's industrial empire was unhappy with his skin color (olive, perhaps, rather than a high-caste leaf-green), it could be changed in a moment. Others came also: those who did not want to improve upon nature but rather conceal it. Any identifying feature could be altered by a Brunani artist-for a price. Well, almost any. Cord's lips quirked a little. The one feature which could not be changed was the one only he and his fellow Mehirans could detect. And they had kept it a secret from the rest of the universe…

    Still no trace. This teeming section was packed with visitors eating, drinking, buying souvenirs. The trisexuals were sensible to travel to the Jewelers' Section, where prices were said to be lower. Calling to memory the map he'd studied earlier, Cord left the neon-bright amusement area. He did not turn away from the spaceport, however. Though he had nothing to go on at present but intuition, he was sure his quarry would not venture too far from the ships.

    Late-afternoon sun felt good on his torso. The scarlet tunic he wore left bare large sections of his muscular chest and shoulders. If not for the softly tanned belt pouch he wore, and the ray wand concealed in one high boot, he would have been hard pressed to hide his weapons in such skimpy clothing. He
was
attracting a certain amount of feminine attention, he noted with satisfaction. He was in better physical condition than most of the tourists and locals, and sufficiently exotic yet acceptably humanoid to prove irresistibly appealing. (And the robe did hide his tail!) Unfortunately, now was not the time for pleasurable dalliances, but the thought was attractive.

    The next arcade was a flesh show, with "No Minors Permitted" posted at the entrance. Well, if he couldn't touch, he could at least look. He walked in. Here the eye-catching wares were displayed inside, out of view of the street. A tourist trap, of course, with the usual assortment of multispecies prostitutes, some whose sole attraction was their alienness.

    In one window a woman with a mane of black hair, her nipples pierced with several small gold rings, danced lasciviously if ungracefully. She wore nothing more than long beaded fringes of fire gems around her hips. Her gyrations allowed frequent glimpses of her pubic hair and even of her labia. A continuous electronic advertisement above her cubicle proclaimed her to be a "Wild Woman from a Primitive World." She snarled and bared her teeth, virtually all she had left to expose.

    For those who preferred them young, there were two Tii; billed as twin sisters, but Cord had his doubts. The Tii had none of the secondary sex characteristics humans associate with adult sexuality. These two looked like prepubescent girls, with slim hips, tiny buds of breasts, and hairless skin. Their faces were cherubic and flawless, their eyes large and innocent. One pouted and sucked her thumb. Definitely not to his taste.

    Of the two dozen or more bodies on display, the only one which interested Cord was a lithe young woman who was obviously a professional contortionist. She had long striped yellow-and-red hair and wore nothing but dark stockings held up by red garters with yellow rosettes. In her small cubicle she slowly bent her body in a variety of poses, all of them highly erotic. A crowd had gathered to watch her, an unusual tribute to her abilities. Teasingly, her back to the audience, she leaned over, legs spread wide, hair brushing the floor. A pink, moist tongue traced a wet line up the inside of one sleek thigh. Cord's tail twitched in reaction. Two or three male spectators turned toward the admission booth; one sprinted through. A moment later, a pink light appeared in the cubicle, tinting her skin peach. She smiled, straightened up, and leisurely walked through the back door into the private rooms beyond. The cluster of watchers broke up slowly.

    Cord smiled and shrugged. She would have appealed to him at any other time, but he was not interested at the moment. A woman had to be unusual indeed to pose a distraction while he was hunting.

    Cord had followed his quarry from Mehira to E'aij, lost the trace, picked up the trail again, had taken a freighter bound for Dragon IV, caught up with the other on Keli-and found himself tricked again. This time he was only hours behind. He had spoken to those who had seen the other leave the spaceport. Striking, all agreed, with eyes like malachite and hair like flame beryls. Such features were a liability when trying to melt into a crowd; it would explain the detour to Brunan.

    So he would find his quarry in some Brunani body shop- sedated and oblivious while an artist's instruments altered face and form-and then he would kill. The Brunani would not object, not when Cord could pay for an "inconvenience." What aliens did to each other was no business of theirs, as long as no Brunani property was damaged, or as long as the damage was made good with money.

    Cork stalked the streets methodically, giving only cursory attention to his physical surroundings. He was nearing the section of the clinics and biochemists, cynically called "body shops."

    Someone-a fat, human male, a tourist-bumped into him, Cord smelled the unmistakable odor of alcohol and sensed unfocused hostility: someone not happy with himself, wanting a scapegoat.

    "Why doncha watch where ya goin'?" the man snarled out.

    Cord did not like brawls. They attracted attention. He was in no mood, however, to tolerate fools.

    "You are drunk and stupid," he stated flatly.

    "Who you calling-?"

    "If you force a fight, either I will kill you or you will spend the rest of your vacation being repaired."

    Something in Cord's staccato voice and in his harsh face penetrated the man's alcohol-induced anger. He backed away a step or two, muttering, "No offense…"

    Cord passed on. As he walked, the strange multicolored buildings, all angles and planes, were filled with a jumble of emotions: fear, pain, pleasure. Cord succeeded in muting even the most anguished calls so that the sounds/feelings were a dull roar in his conscious mind. As night fell on this part of Brunan, the cacophony was joined by the colors of garish streetlamps, so that his senses reeled under the constant onslaught. He steeled himself, recalling the ancient hymns, and recovered control.

    He threaded his way around the knots of tourists, prospective patients, doctors, artisans; through the winding streets, seeking the one cold emotion that did not match; like the last piece of a jigsaw which would not fit into place no matter how you turned it. His quarry was like that puzzle, with a "scent" like no other.

    Very slowly, an icy tendril of feeling crept into his nearly numb mind, distinct from all the other psychic impulses. Its touch was a crisp thrust, shocking him alert.

    It was the one. And it was near. The closer he came, the stronger the scent.

    Cord broke into a run, dodging easily around the few people who were still out in this quarter. Except for those coming steathily to the face artists who kept office hours at night, the streets here were deserted. All the amusement arcades and pleasure palaces were behind him, with the markets and businesses that supplied the port. This was a quiet professional section.

    Cord slowed. He was very near now. He opened his mind, heedless of the increased clamor of other brains. This section was not as bad as the thronged areas nearer the port; it was isolated, empty except for many who were in a drugged sleep. Intently he followed the thread of emotion, as one in a dark maze might follow a bright string. Past large, brightly illuminated clinics, past smaller body shops and face artists, to a large but plain building almost at the street's end.